Vizsla Vibes and Corgi Cups

Someone’s well-loved Pembroke Welsh Corgi mug.

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I had a “comment awaiting moderation” yesterday. The commenter turned out to be someone I’ve been reading for a while now, but only  when he comments on the entries of pet blog writers. It was James Viscosi, an author.

I clicked on his name and brought up his site about writing. Hmmm… Podcasts? Writer’s software? You mean, like, touch-typing tutorials? My partner would probably understand what he’s talking about, but not me. She likes that kind of stuff; her eyes glisten as she details her Mac laptop’s capabilities or her Canon camera’s… umm… I forget, but they have lots of numbers. Me, I just call her lenses Stella, Mac, Lucy, and Frida.

Anyway, at the top of James’s left-hand sidebar is a question: “Looking for Dennis?” Oh right, I thought, Dennis the Vizsla! James’s comments are often written in Dennis’s voice. Dennis is friendly, enthusiastic, and must have gone to the same high school as Checkers, since his spelling is on a par with Checkers’s arithmetic.

So over I went to “Dennis’s Diary of Destruction”. Dennis came to the Viscosi household as an adolescent, polkadotted with mange. He and his siblings had been found in a canyon. Gradually he settled into the pet-friendly residence, which currently counts three dogs (including Dennis) and a cat.

All right, this is stuff I understand! I watched videos of Tucker learning to track, and learned about the Viscosis’ dedication to ballroom dancing, and then watched a commenter’s proffered video of an Olivia Newton John look-alike strutting with her Golden Retriever to “You’re the One That I Want” (ooh! ooh! ooh… ) .

Yeah, I could visit this one, for sure! Then I noticed something. I was already blogrolled. In triplicate. James has his blogroll divided in subject headings, and there was “Lavender Bay” in the list of “Cats”, “Dennis’s Friends”, and “Dogs”. Guess he’s been reading my stuff. I remembered the scene from “St Elmo’s Fire” where she finds her platonic friend’s cookie tin stuffed full of photos of her.

Luckily I wasn’t in any kind of creepy head space, so I returned the compliment, abeit only in monolicate. You can now find “Dennis’s Diary of Destruction” on my blogroll. Welcome, James and Dennis!

Around 5 pm, after taking Cai and Fergus out for a potty break, I set Fergus in his pen and took Cai over for my afternoon cat-sitting stint, which basically consists of tossing kibble in their dishes and vamoosing.

Cai has been learning to heel, with the help of a two-hundred-dollar training course and a two-dollar package of training treats (note to dogparents: opt for the treats). Yesterday he was doing a splendid job. We had just left the cats’ home when a gold minivan slowed down beside us. I thought the driver was simply being careful on the narrow street, but a voice called out, “Excuse me!”

I looked into the faces of a miniature poodle and — strangely enough — a Vizsla. They were sitting in the passenger seat, and there were four other dogs in the rest of the van, all clamouring like school children.

The man driving asked me, “Would you like a Corgi coffee cup? Is that a Pembroke?”

“No, he’s actually a Cardigan.”

“Well, would you like it anyway? I’m a dog-walker –” that would explain the passengers “– and I found this cup at a yard sale, hoping I would find someone to give it to.”

“Oh — well, sure! Thank you!” And I was handed a photo-printed coffee cup from 1994. There’s a new kid in town, a little Pemmie puppy named Andie; I think I’ll see if her daddy would like a pencil mug. There’s generosity in the air, may as well keep it going.

(Wordless Wednesday) Cardigan offensive: collateral damage

Plus Ca Change

This rocking chair, in my mum’s house, had different upholstery when I was a kid.

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What day is it, boys and girls?

It’s Laundry Day!

And what do we do on Laundry Day?

We make lists!

Today I thought I’d try to find 10 things about me that are different from before I exited my teens. And maybe 10 things that haven’t changed — that way, no matter what I come up with, it can go on one list or the other. The second list is allowed to contain practices from which I at some point deviated — for example, I tried having long hair for a few years — but which never “took”.

Check out these lists for inspiration, and then try it yourself!

Ten Ways I’ve Changed Since Childhood

1. When I was in first grade, I was afraid of being drafted into the Viet Nam war. I had to keep reminding myself that I was neither American, nor a boy. I now have no trouble remembering that I’m Canadian.
2. I used to spread mayonnaise on white bread and eat it. Just like that. No, seriously.
3. I used to despise disco, with its simplistic synthesizer tunes and vapid one-line lyrics (anyone remember “Fly, Robin, Fly”?). Now I enjoy its silly, happy light-heartedness.
4. Blue used to be my favourite colour. Now green is. Or maybe purple. Or a good deep pink. And oatmeal is nice and so’s oxblood, and then there’s gamboge, viridian, cobalt, or how about brindle, blue merle, liver, chestnut?
5. I don’t fall and skin my knees nearly so much.
6. I wasn’t able to play any instrument requiring the independent action of more than two fingers. Now I can play the recorder!
7. In my teens, I enjoyed sweet, creamy poisons like Pink Ladies and Grasshoppers. Now I’m happiest with a pint of ale.
8. In my teens, I had a prejudice against business people. Now I count several of that species among my closest friends.
9. I used to love the Autumn. Now I like every season.
10. I used to dislike parsnips and rutabaga. Now I like them just fine.

Ten Ways I Haven’t Changed Since Childhood

1. I still pick up worms off rainy sidewalks and move them to safety.
2. I still say hello to sparrows, chipmunks, cowslips, toadstools…
3. I still have short hair.
4. I still love to write stories.
5. I still love marshes and woods and other creaturely habitats.
6. When I was little, I preferred singing in church to sitting in Sunday School. Still do.
7. When I was about 5, Mummy gave me a peeled clove of garlic just to sniff. I ran all over the house with it! I still love the aroma.
8. I wasn’t able to even turn the ropes for double-dutch skipping. Still can’t.
9. I always preferred stuffed animals to baby dolls. I still prefer animals to human babies.
10. I still prefer salty and savoury foods to sweet.

I know, this entry has been a thrill a minute. But at least you now know more about me than my “about” page will ever tell you.

Treed

Omit the geese and the kingfisher, and the pond looked something like this.

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Last night was my turn to watch Fergus. I’m not going to go into all the permutations of a two-month-old canine’s skills at eliminating in inappropriate places at the wrong times, like… never mind, I’m not going to go into that.

However, my brains being slightly fried from all the excitement (and a night of sleeping in the papasan), by mid-afternoon today I couldn’t think of anything to write about except An Excremental Journey or A Scat Concert or Bummed Out or Hindsight or… until E.g., answering an e-mail, said Why don’t you write about that time with your first dog… So here it is. Just.

When I was 12, my mother, realizing the shortage of sandwiches developing in my psychic picnic, decided to get me a dog. A woman she knew had some puppies to give away, and one of them came to me. Alfie had some collie in him — Cai reminds me a bit of him.

Alfie and I liked to walk down to the far end of the dirt road and hop the farm fence, braving the possibility of Polled Herefords to get to the pond. It was maybe a foot deep, with cattails and Red-winged Blackbirds and frogs and a cowpath up one side and a little bridge that led, past the cedars, to some summer cabins. I think there must have been another driveway to those cabins, because I never met any other humans at the pond.

There was one meeting, though, that’s etched on my brain. One day, I decided to climb a tree while Alfie was busy snuffling about in and out of the pond. This tree was reached by crossing some marshy, splishy bits. I swung myself up into the crook, and leaned my back against one of the main uprights, closing my eyes to better feel the sun on my face.

I don’t think I was blissed out for long when I heard some emphatic splashing and a hiss, then a scrabble. It was a muskrat. Alfie had scared it, and it was climbing up my tree! I stayed very, very still. So did the muskrat, when it realized I was in its way. Alfie had his forefeet on the tree trunk, quite pleased with himself. What was the poor old ratty to do?

To this day, I’m glad about the choice it made; I’d like to believe that it considered me the lesser of the two evil species. The muskrat continued its climb — right onto my torso, off my right shoulder, and on up the tree.

I climbed down after that, calling my dog, to head home and let the usually non-arboreal creature stop panting and make its way back into the water.

The Cardigan Nestling

E.g. wanted a new baby for Mother’s Day. No problem, I said, it’s the perfect weekend to go dogsnesting. The puppies are just the right age about now, and it’s a lovely day for a drive in the country. Why don’t we take Jack and his mum along, too?

 

So we scouted the trees…

…while E.g. kept her eyes on the road.

Local landowner Doug answers Jack’s enquiry. “We had a West Highland Terrier rookery last year, but so far nothing this Spring.”

Finally, our faithful nestlinghound Cai finds a tree! Jack acts as spotter while Lavenderbay starts up the rescue rope.

E.g. approves of the new nestling.

Safe in the arms of Mama.

Buckled in for the ride home.

Fergus’s new nest…

… complete with foliage-patterned blankie.

E.g. after a full two hours’ sleep! Ain’t motherhood grand!

The Rest of the Prizes

Hi everybody, and welcome to the Saturday funnies (I hope).

Way back when, we had a Famous-Dead-Person Blog contest, with all participants invited to offer a word for a limerick if they provided a username for the famous dead person. Well, everybody did! Goodbear’s limerick was posted on my “Turtle’s Latest Limerick” sidebar on April 28th for a week, and may now be seen on my “Limericks of the Turtle” page. Last Saturday, I posted three limericks; there are four more to go, including one for Chris.

Here then, are the remaining four limericks, with the dates on which they’ll be posted on my sidebar and added to the “Limericks of the Turtle” page. Enjoy! (And if you didn’t read the grand prize, 499 words on the topic of Jack’s mom’s choice, you can catch it here.)

Okay, this first one is for Shelley, who asked for a limerick with the word “travel” in it. It’ll be sidebarred on May 28th.

• I’m travelin’ on down the line
• With sev’ral great Cardis of mine.
• We’ll see friends of yore,
• And might get a good score.
• Either way it’s okay — I feel fine!

 

Next is the limerick for Livingisdetail, who offered the word “procession”. This one will be sidebarred on June 7th.

• The Lady Godiva’s procession
• Has made quite a lasting impression.
• Her shiftless noblesse
• Is still seen as a test
• Of good stewardship during recession.

 

Third, and second-last, is another one for Jack’s mum, who offered the word “flash”. June 14 will herald its week of front-page fame.

• I now see my purchase was rash.
• Though this white bathing suit is quite flash,
• If I don’t lose (I fear)
• Twenty pound and ten year,
• It will raise not a single eyelash.

 

And finally, here is one for Chris, who didn’t specify a word, so I chose one for him: “president”. I’m not convinced of its suitability as family material, so if you’re reading these aloud to the kiddies you may want to tell them that this one isn’t funny, which it probably isn’t anyway. (There was enough scandal over Gerald the other day.) It will be featured for the week of June 21st.

• A president’s job is a tough one,
• And a journalist’s tongue is a rough one.
• After one photo-op
• At Ye Olde Sausage Shoppe,
• Headlines read, “Leader told where to stuff one.”

 

And today is Puppy Pickup Day, which means I have to run away now and won’t be able to visit your blogs till tomorrow. I wish you all a luscious weekend. A la prochaine!

Llama on the Lam

Field with friendly llama. No, wait…

Some years ago, my brother Keith and his family were living on a hobby farm, trying their hand, after work and on weekends, at raising some roasts and wings. Their agricultural methods were gleaned from several sources: tales Dad told of his teen-year summers working on a farm, advice from the rural neighbours, and books and magazines.

This last resource encouraged Keith and his wife to order exotica like Texas longhorn cattle or frizzled cochin chickens. The year they were considering a few sheep, they read of the benefits of owning a llama. The llama would cry out in warning if it saw a coyote, and if the coyote were foolish enough to get any closer, the llama would kick it. Here was an eco-friendly solution to a common predator, and scoring high on the exotica scale to boot.

And so, my brother kept a llama on his farm for a while. A short while. Maybe fifteen minutes or so. As soon as it was let out into the field, this llama decided that the grass was greener over the next fence — and over the next one, and the next, and the next.

At first, my brother ran after the beast, but when it wouldn’t stop, Keith trotted back for the pick-up truck. He pursued the llama for miles, impressed with its stamina, but finally lost sight of it. Damn. Keith went home and printed up ads to post on telephone poles. He phoned all the neighbours he knew, asking them to keep a lookout for the stupid so-and-so – he had paid a pretty penny for it, and it wasn’t exactly wearing a collar and licence.

After no word for days, finally someone called the house. There was a llama in his back field, he reported. With mixed feelings of exultation and vengeance, my brother hopped in his pick-up and drove the five miles to the caller’s home.

The other fellow came out, greeted Keith, and walked him around back. The two men looked on in companionable silence a moment, each deep in his own thoughts of rural life. Then Keith spoke. “That’s not my llama.”

Things are Crook in Tallarook (contest prize)

Jack’s mom, who won the Famous Dead Person’s Blog contest, asked that I write 499 words (so that she could have the last one!) on sleep and dreams. Alyson may recognize her part in the inspiration for the following tale. Enjoy!

Things are Crook in Tallarook

Paddock chicken. Brendan woke with a start. What the heck was a paddock chicken? Come to think of it, what was a paddock? A field, wasn’t it, a meadow? Maybe a paddock chicken was a grouse or something. He glanced at the clock — 1:30 — and studied Martin’s peaceful, slumbering face. Brendan eased out of bed and cozied himself into his ancient terry housecoat and the sheepskin slippers Martin had bought him five years earlier.

In the living room, he gazed south towards the CN Tower and the downtown core. This view had aided his decision to buy the condo. Since the move, though, he had begun waking in the dead of night with odd phrases that sounded English but meant nothing to him, his mind racing from one verbal association to another.

He settled on the couch to channel-surf. “…went into overtime tonight…” Sports. “…for your baby’s…” Family. “…first book of short fiction, Things are Crook in Tallarook. Welcome, Tom!” This looked interesting; some kind of Australian talk show, probably live.

“So tell us about the title, Tom.”

“Well, Peter, I spent a year in Canada, and was fascinated by which Australian expressions were easily grasped, and which weren’t. I got funny looks if I said, “Things are crook in Tallarook”, but Canadians knew its Shakespearean equivalent –” Brendan started mouthing the famous line.

“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark?” guessed the host.

“Exactly,” replied the author. ”On the other hand, no one had trouble understanding me when I’d announce that it was beer o’clock.” Brendan laughed along with the studio audience.

“And now, will you read to us from your new book?”

“Certainly. This story is set in Canada’s largest city, Toronto. It’s called ‘Paddock Chicken.’” Suddenly Brendan was wide awake again. On the other side of the world, Tom whoever-he-was held his book out like a choir member holding a music folder. He began.

“Paddock chicken. Brendan woke with a start. What the heck was –” Brendan clicked the power button, but couldn’t move, not even to lower the remote. He switched the TV on again.

“…housecoat and the sheepskin slippers Martin had bought him –” Brendan hit the power button once more before dropping the remote as though it were a live firecracker. His eyes were dry; he forced himself to blink. Then he silently returned to the bedroom, hung up his housecoat and removed his slippers, tucked himself in, and huddled against Martin’s reassuring bulk, trying not to whimper.

The alarm went off. Brendan, forcing open his sleep-sealed lids, found Martin eying him quizzically. “Brendan, you’re good with words: what’s a paddock chicken? I just had the funniest dream.”

“An Australian rabbit. Two shakes, while I go siphon the python.”

“Eh?”

Brendan retreated to the bathroom, running from his own voice, locking himself in, determined to take a long, leisurely shower, hoping that by the time he emerged to hear that funny dream, Martin would have forgotten it.

(Wordless Wednesday) Gerald’s Spring Migration

Good Stress

Ember, Fergus, Reba, Chief, Flicker, and Sparky.

[Happy laundry day! I've developed a habit of posting lists of some sort or other on Tuesdays. Today it's a list of names, those of the puppies in the latest Yasashiikuma litter, seen above outdoors on a recent sunny afternoon. Beats me who all those hominids are, but the human puppy sure has a sweet face.

Below is the post I wrote yesterday. My cold rendered it a bit blasé in tone, and I'm not so sure I can improve it by much today -- isn't it naptime anyway? Also, I'm much less nervous and anxious than the first time around. That reminds me of a humorous, comforting book I read a quarter-century ago, while I was pregnant. It was written by a pediatrician and father of grown children, and had a title like How to Treat Your First Child as Though it Were Your Second. Anyway, here's yesterday's news today.]

My blogfriend Goodbear had a crappy start to her weekend, a whole pile of things beyond her control, most of them handleable if dealt with one by one, but not when they all come flying at her together like Shreddies out of a cereal box. She also said something about being crazy. I worried about that last remark, coming as it did out of left field (Goodbear is an eminently sane creature). I suggested that maybe she was just stressed, not crazy: stressed by good things (plans for a new puppy) as well as bad (large creepy spiders, creepy large spyers…).

Goodbear, by the way, is the first blogfriend (well okay, besides Shelley) to know E.g. and my good-stress secret. I’ve made her wait for further news because until yesterday we didn’t know which furball we’d be getting. Have I let the secret out yet?

Shelley is very careful to match her puppies with the most suitable families. She asks prospective owners lots of questions about their lifestyle and their reasons for getting a dog, observes her puppies carefully, and has temperament testing done when they’re seven weeks old. Last night, Shelley called us with her decision: It’s a boy! We’re getting Fergus.

E.g. and I, who have been tuning in since before they were born, have always thought Fergus the handsomest of this litter. If you go here, you can see his head with its perfect centre line through the brown, looking to me like a great-Gatsby-era gent with oiled hair. The markings look a little different now that he’s bigger, but he still has a neat-and-tidy look about him.

Shelley chose Fergus for us because he seems pretty laid back, and won’t dominate Cai, who is already somewhat submissive. Apparently it was a tough decision, however. Shelley had a hard time deciding whether or not Fergus would be a show dog! She even told E.g. that if we’d like, she could show Fergus to get his puppy points before we have him neutered. I’m undecided about that, since I know nothing about dog shows… but since I’ve always flown the flag of dilletantism, it might be interesting to learn something about it. We’ll see.

Anyway, getting back to the current time, we’ll be going up on Saturday to pick up Fergus. We’ll get to know him for two weeks or so, and then return him to Shelley to be boarded while we’re on vacation in Paris. We know he’ll be in good hands!

E.g. hasn’t yet decided whether we’ll change his puppy name (Cai’s puppy name was Jasper). She had thought of “Robin” if we got a boy, but she likes the name Fergus, so we may keep it. I’m sure the decision will be made by the end of the week.